


That Looks on Tempests

by Coventry



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Slow Romance, Team Shelby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coventry/pseuds/Coventry
Summary: Michael-not-Jason is left in Montana with a still-burning heart, an uncooperative new memory and no one but Bo to carry him through. Things were tough enough, thanks very much, before a vicious storm trapped him on his archnemesis’ property not one month after he’d sworn never to trespass again.-or, Michael's story, following 5.7
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	1. Thunderstorm

He should have felt the change in the air. He was an experienced ranch hand who had survived three Montana summers already. He ought to have sensed the way the wind stilled and the fine hairs on his arms seemed to levitate away from his skin. Besides, the ranch wasn’t completely trapped in the 19th century. The satellite forecast on the radio in the main barn that morning had threatened squalls. All the signs were there. But Michael-not-Jason – he’d said it enough times by now it was hard to think of either name alone – had at least two good reasons to be distracted. 

First, ever since he’d watched his wife – no, _Jane,_ just Jane – disappear down a dirt road, he’d been trying to nudge, then tuck, then _shove_ memories of his life in Miami out of his mind. Maybe it was the after effects of what Rose did to him, but every effort only increased how often his Miami years asserted themselves. He couldn’t look at a bright saddle blanket without being reminded of the tiles outside of the Villanueva household, or hear a gust in the trees without thinking of crashing waves on a glittering beach. His steady, simple world was now a minefield. 

Second, he sensed that the foreman, Rick – okay, him and really everyone else on the ranch – could see his mind was scrambled, and he felt a mounting urgency to prove himself as capable as he’d ever been. He knew that his fellow hands, at least, were sympathetic, but Rick had been blunt. The offer of continuing on the ranch was conditional on Jason-fine-sure-Michael being able to focus on his work, not pining over some gal who’d left him for the city slicker life. 

Late this evening Rick, in front of everyone, commanded him to go take care of broken gate on the far paddock. It was a painful errand tacked on to the end of an already backbreaking day at the height of the season, and they all knew it. Michael-not-Jason did at least take satisfaction from the grudging respect in Rick’s eyes when his only reaction was to nod and turn Shelby back to the fields.

All this added up to Michael-not-Jason crouched on the edge of the far paddock at the first brush of dusk, blind to the fact that the air promised trouble. He was concentrating instead on the latch, a finicky, rusty piece that clearly needed a total replacement. He ended up taking a length of wire and painstakingly running it around every piece of the latch to hold it together, then fashioning a second loop that could be slipped off and on to fully secure the gate. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto his gloves as he finished, and when he pulled them off he found a new blister. He swore softly under his breath, and heard Bo give a low whine.

He glanced over to his dog, thinking the sound was a reaction to his frustration. He’d tied Bo to a fencepost because they were at the border of Charlie’s land, and despite the current truce, the thought of losing his dog – well, it couldn’t happen. Now Bo was worrying back and forth at the end of his lead, sniffing the air. Michael-not-Jason frowned and glanced around. Well, there was no Charlie. No cattle. No snakes. What – 

A low rumble rolled over the treeline. His shoulders relaxed. Thunder. They could handle that.

“Don’t worry, Bo,” he reassured his dog. “We’re ‘bout done here. We’ll get on home.”

He turned back to the latch, testing it a few times and tweaking the wire, oblivious to the wind kicking up through the grass and the unhappy set of Bo’s shoulders. Just as he was satisfied, a rhythmic, soft drumming in the air grew louder and louder, cresting over the horizon and pushing him right back into a memory of the Miami surf. A bright warm day, a picnic on the sand, the laughter of his wife – no, Jane – _no_ – 

He shook his head vehemently, and listened again, recognizing the noise instead as the sound from a great curtain of rain approaching over the trees. He swore once more, closing the latch and jogging over to Bo and Shelby. So much for being dry for dinner. He untied Bo and swung himself into the saddle, settling his boots in the stirrups just as a brilliant flash of light tore through the sky.

The blast of thunder followed immediately after, so powerful his hearing rang and his mare shied. He steadied her and swung towards the treeline and the trail to the ranch. The rain arrived, soaking him in seconds. His vision had barely cleared when lightning struck again with another crash right behind it. The wind picked up, driving a torrent in his face, forcing him to tuck his head low and urge his mare on. She broke into a reluctant trot and Michael-not-Jason felt a moment of relief. Then the rain turned to hail.

He only heard Bo yelp once, and by the time he’d swung back around, he could see the dog running clear across the paddock into the treeline – in the wrong direction, onto Charlie’s property.

“Bo!” he roared. “No! Get back here!” 

Somewhere underneath his blind panic and anger, he could at least acknowledge that it was hard to blame Bo. The hailstones were the size of golfballs and coming fast. Shelby was equally unhappy and pinned her ears down. He was forced to dismount and drag her by the reins into the treeline, winding along the narrow trail where he had last seen Bo. He continued to shout the dog’s name, but it was lost in the constant thunder and howling wind. The world was growing darker under the cover of clouds and the setting sun, his path more and more lit only by intermittent flashes of lightning. A tree branch crashed down, clipping his left shoulder, barely missing his hat and head. His heart sank as he realized he had to find shelter now, or he might not be in one piece to find Bo later. 

He cast around, squinting through the dense downpour through the trees and finally – a steady light, down a fork in the path. He climbed back in the saddle and drove his mare forward, grateful when she responded with a surging canter. 

They crashed into a clearing, where he could see the light was a lantern hung from the side of a great wooden barn. He dismounted again and led Shelby over to it, dragging the door open, relieved to find it unlocked. He stepped over the threshold to meet the business end of a rifle. 

“Hey, Charlie,” he managed, raising both hands, stepping backwards into the deluge.

“Hey yourself, you son of a bitch,” Charlie snarled. “Damn good thing I came to lock up the barn. I listen to your damn wife, I let your stupid dog go, and you show up here again?”

“She’s not my – ” Michael-not-Jason shook his head, trying to focus through the sheet of rain between them and a sudden image of Jane, by the campfire, her face right next to his. _No._

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I am. Shelby and I got caught in the rain and turned around. Just looking for a place to ride it out.” He glanced once at her furious expression, then lowered his eyes again, keeping his hands up. He tried to hold them steady against the cold and fatigue.

Charlie huffed out an angry breath and finally lowered the end of the rifle. Shelby decided that was invitation enough and barged forward towards the smell of sweet hay and the warmth of the barn. Charlie shifted out of the way just in time, looking back between her and Michael-not-Jason.

Another crack of thunder sounded, and he flinched minutely, but didn’t move to enter. Rain streamed from the sides of his hat, onto his shoulders. His gaze stayed low.

Charlie abruptly turned around and went to tend the rogue horse in her barn. It wasn’t until she had all Shelby’s tack off, brushing the mare with her back to him, that she finally snapped, “Well, get in here and close that damn door, the floor’s getting wet.”

He moved forward, legs stiff, and rolled the door closed behind him. He found that afterwards, finally out of the driving rain, his legs decided to become liquid instead. Michael-not-Jason managed to turn himself around and sink to the floor of the barn with his back against the wall, preserving at least some semblance of dignity as the last of the day’s strength left him.

He looked up to find Charlie watching him, looking thoroughly unimpressed. He met her gaze now, too tired to be intimidated any more. 

“Thank you for taking care of Shelby,” he said. Shelby, munching on hay, flicked an ear in his direction and gave a low whicker.

Charlie shrugged. “Ain’t her fault you couldn’t see sense to be home before the hail hit.”

Michael-not-Jason dipped his head in a nod. “You’re right.” He tried to sit straighter. 

Charlie frowned and leaned back against a post. “Didn’t see the sky turn?”

Now it was his turn to shrug. Silence stretched between them, only broken by the quiet shifting of the horses in the barn and intermittent crackles of thunder.

“Suppose you want to stay the night,” she said at last.

His mouth twitched. “Reckon I’d need some assistance not to, but if you asked, I’d find a way to go.” 

She snorted. “You can stay in the loft.” 

A hayloft sounded like heaven, but sleeping here – “Bo. My dog. He’s out there.”

Her face didn’t change, but her tone was genuine rather than mocking. “That thief? He’s smarter’n you. He’ll find his way home afore you do.”

He gave a small nod. He forced himself upright, clinging to the door before getting his legs under him. He regarded the ladder to the loft with grim resignation. “I’d rather skip an audience for this, if it’s the same to you ma’am.”

Charlie rolled her eyes, but went to the door. “Suit yourself, Michael. If you ’n your horse are still here in the morning I’ll shoot you.”

He offered a tired smile. “Fair enough. Good night, Charlie.”

She closed the door behind her. It wasn’t pretty, but he got himself up the ladder, and onto a slab of hay bales. He peeled off as much of his wet clothing as he thought was decent, and pulled a saddle blanket from a pile in the corner to stretch out on. It was soft but scratchy, just like the carpet at his mother’s house. He and Jane were almost caught on that carpet once, making out. They had to flee, giggling furiously, like teenagers. They ended up cuddling on the roof, watching the clouds and airplanes overhead, listening to a distant strain of salsa blaring from a few houses down -

No. He covered his face in his hands, slowly scrubbing back and forth until the images faded. This was going to be a long night. Michael listened intently one more time to make sure Charlie had left the barn, before letting his eyes close.

\--

Charlie had not had an easy day herself, and she’d slid into her bed in the main farmhouse with a grateful sigh. Suffice to say she was less than thrilled to be dragged from her sleep only a few hours later by a commotion in the barn. 

At first, she worried it was a fox. In the winter, they would sometimes sneak in and raise hell with the chickens. But by the time she was awake enough to have her boots on and remember she didn’t have chickens anymore, she could make out a man’s voice among the whinnies of distressed horses.

Another intruder? She grabbed her rife, thinking, I oughta get a dog myself.

She stomped down to the yard, still being pummeled by rain. She crossed quickly to the barn door and listened for a moment, trying to make out what might be happening within.

She could make out only one voice, and realized it was saying the same thing, again and again: “No – Jane – no – Jane – _Jane_ ¬– ”

She threw open the door. The clatter was enough to catch the attention of every horse in the barn, but the voice above continued. This close she could make more words out in between.

“Jane… Glor – Gloriana! Jane, Gloriana, Villaneuva. Please, please, I know her, I still remember, please let me go, Jane – _Jane!_ ”

She scrambled up the ladder to the loft. Pulling herself upright, she confronted the source of all the ruckus.

Michael – that pain-in-the-ass cowboy, that prior archenemy, that simple decent man who came through a tempest after his dog – lay in the hayloft calling out again and again for this woman who wasn’t his wife, his face etched in grief and horror. 

She had no idea what to do. She coughed and tried to knock her hand, then her rifle against the wood in the barn. He stayed trapped in his nightmare. Finally she nudged him with her foot, hard. He startled, then froze, then slowly sat up. 

“Jane – _no_ , God, what – I – oh…” His gaze focused on her. He blinked. “Charlie?”

He sounded lost. Her insides twisted, but her voice was gruff. “Yeah, Charlie. Your hollerin’ woke up the whole damn household worse than the damn thunder.”

He blinked again, rapidly, and color flooded his cheeks. He looked down, rubbing his neck. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I hoped – I didn’t mean – I should have warned you.” 

She raised an eyebrow. He said, “I talk in my sleep when I don’t have Bo.”

She couldn’t help it. “ _Talk_?”

He winced. “Okay, fine, shout. I get nightmares of – of another time, a bad time, and it’s hard to tell what’s what. Bo usually wakes me early, or licks me till I stop, or somethin’.” By now he was looking firmly at the ground, face aflame. 

She was so still he thought she’d left, but when he glanced up she was still there by the ladder, rifle still loosely in hand, staring at him. She finally asked: “Anything else but Bo can make you quit it?”

He raised a helpless shoulder. Suddenly he froze, as though a thought had struck him, but then shook his head again. “Nothing, ma’am. I just ride it out and try not to bother anyone.”

To be fair to Michael, he was so deep in his own mind, he had no way of remembering how little Charlie appreciated people being less than forthcoming on her property. She reminded him by leveling the rifle at him again. He sat back down.

“What. Else.” she said.

Michael, in the interest of being at gunpoint as briefly as possible, gave her a one-minute summary that covered the following: I had a good life in Miami, married, working as a cop. A crazy woman, a criminal I hunted, needed me out of the way, while she got some kind of revenge, or leverage, or something with her lover, who’s also my wife’s son’s father’s sister. She kidnapped me, faked my death, and erased my memory with electricity and that’s – that’s the bad time. After it was done, she told me I was a villain and left me in a field near here, so I ended up on the ranch as Jason. Then my wife’s son’s father came and found me, and brought me back to Miami. I got my memories back, fell in love with my wife again, brought her here to see my new life, and she left me for her son’s father. 

Charlie’s grip on the gun slowly went slack while he went on, as did her jaw.

“She’s gone now, but when she was here, sleeping next to me, I didn’t have nightmares. So, that, I guess, made me quit it.” He finally looked up at her dully, and the rifle at her side. He nodded at it. “You ever put that thing away?”

She cleared her throat, and reassembled a scowl on her face. “Not s’long as there are strange men staying in my barn.”

He stood again, suddenly very conscious of his missing shirt. “I’ll go, ma’am.”

A gust of wind hammered against the roof, and Charlie rolled her eyes.

“That’d be foolishness.” She turned back to the ladder, and jerked her head towards the house. “Come on, now.”

-

The shrill, distant ring of an old dial-up phone roused Michael. He cracked his eyes open against gray dawn light from where he lay in a flannel sleeping bag on the floor of Charlie’s bedroom. He sat up slowly, stretching sore muscles. A curl of coffee scent tickled his nose, and he looked over to see her bed was empty. How long had he slept?

In the daylight, the old farmhouse that Charlie apparently inhabited alone looked worn but cozy. Sunlight streaming through the windows would suggest the rain had passed at last. He descended a creaking wooden staircase and eventually found Charlie on her porch, a mug of coffee in hand, surveying a yard full of fallen branches. She tipped her head toward a second mug that sat on the railing, waiting for him.

He hesitated before taking the first sip and turned to her. “Ma’am, I can’t thank you enough. I hope I didn’t – um, that is – I hope you – ”

“You didn’t wake me up again.” She blew gently on her mug. 

He did take a sip then, more for something to do as they watched the sun creep into the yard. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. He decided to chalk it up to sheer exhaustion and not think about it again.

“Rick called,” she said. “Bo came back without you, and he got worried. Said he felt bad about some fool errand he sent you on.”

Michael thought of the broken gate with a twinge of vindication. “You told him I’m not dead?”

“I did,” Charlie said, then smirked. “Eventually.”

Michael suppressed a grin, then let it fade, thinking about the ranch and Bo. “I should head back.”

She nodded and waved a hand at the railing. Next to the mug, he hadn’t noticed before, was a set of clean clothing, with a worn red shirt and faded jeans. 

He glanced down at his undershirt and boxers, then back at her. “I appreciate it, ma’am, but you’ve done enough for me. I can just put my own back on.”

“Those’re still wet. These here ain’t doing nobody any good sitting in a closet.”

Michael just nodded his thanks, trying to graciously ignore the obvious question of who the clothes had belonged to before. When he came back out of the bathroom wearing them, though, the flicker of loss over her face was telling. 

He opened his mouth to ask and she sighed. “My brother.”

“I’m sorry.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of her brother’s jeans. “I can’t imagine.”

She tilted her head. “Not exactly, sure. But you ain’t a stranger to somethin’ like it.”

He nodded again, not trusting himself to meet her gaze. When he looked up again she was already walking out the front door, calling over her shoulder, “Go on ‘fore I keep my end of the deal from last night. And you still owe me chickens!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was one of those former Team Michael folks who converted peacefully to Team Raf when, you know, Michael _died_. That made season five a bit of a trip when Michael reappeared as a weird new kinda shitty background character for the first half of the season, then made a brief cameo, and then was gone . 
> 
> Don’t know about you, but I felt that of the many telenovela-approved ways to bring back a beloved character to boost ratings and have a nice send-off (ghosts! visions! secret twins!), this was a poor choice. Not to mention the plot reasoning behind it had some real horrifying implications. Remember when Rose said her evil ECT on Michael worked … eventually? Yikes.
> 
> I thought that at minimum, it would be nice to see Michael wrestle with his trauma and loss and actually find love anew. I figured that was certainly possible even with canon pairings. It did require a bit more backstory for Charlie.  
> So I wrote this. It got away from me a little.
> 
> Chapters 1-3 take place in Montana starting around the end of 5.7 and only have Michael, Charlie, Keith, Shelby and some ensemble OCs. Chapters 4-6 can be considered to take place just after the series finale, and involve both Montana and Miami. 
> 
> Let me know what you think. 
> 
> Love, Coventry.


	2. Meteor Shower

_Prize_ chickens, it turned out, weren’t something you could order over the phone or pick up at the weekly livestock market. You had to talk to a guy, who knew a lady, who knew a farm, and all this might still only get you a date and time at the county fair where someone _might_ be willing to part with a few rarified chicks. Michael’s overwhelming impression at the end of three weeks’ searching was that the world of prize chickens was shadier than he had ever wanted to know.

At any rate, he found his best shot was probably this fellow at the fair, and luckily it was common enough for ranch hands to take a day off to go see it. He dragged Keith with him, both as a fun buddy outing and as the only man he trusted with the full story of why he was looking for chickens. They wandered up and down aisles full of straw and freshly-brushed heifers, eating fried everything-on-a-stick, until they came to a row of pens that had covered the ground in front of them with feathers.

“This looks about right,” said Keith, just as a man emerged from one with a hen under his arm. He was a good foot shorter than Michael, and had a streaked grey beard of roughly equivalent length. The downy feathers speckled across his patched, fraying flannel shirt might suggest he was scatterbrained or at least a little past his prime, but the callouses on his hands and piercing glare he gave them belied that impression.

“The hell you looking at my chickens for?” the man snarled.

Michael was half-tempted to raise his hands in surrender as he had for Charlie. What _was_ it about chicken breeders?

“For account of we’re at the fair, sir,” Keith replied with his usual easy charm, unfazed. “Didn’t know these were private chickens.”

“They’re _my_ chickens,” he grunted, and gave them a squint. “And I hear tell someone’s looking to take them.” He tucked the hen tighter under his arm. The hen didn’t seem bothered and trained its own beady eye on them. 

“ _Buy_ them, sir,” Michael spoke up. He met the man’s gaze. “We – no, sorry, _I’m_ responsible for the loss of prize chickens that belonged to a good rancher. I know those birds were special, and I can’t bring them back, but I’d like to do my best to give her some way to start again properly.”

“Her?” the man said. He straightened up, making the hen’s head bob. “You’re talkin’ about Charlie?”

Michael cast a quick glance at Keith, who shrugged, and remembered again that Montana might look big but the world of the folks who lived there was small. “Yes, sir.”

His face softened. “Well now, that was a right shame, her losin’ those chickens. I offered her some chicks at the time, but she said no. I ‘spect she was too heartbroken to take’em.”

“Heartbroken? Over chickens?” Keith blurted out, suppressing a snort. Michael winced as the man’s face became hard again.

“Over something she shared with her brother,” he snapped. “Wasn’t a year since she lost him when those chickens died. I’m assumin’ you didn’t know that when you did whatever you did, or I’d be runnin’ you out of here now m’self.” 

“No, I didn’t know,” Michael said slowly. He thought back to Charlie’s face when she saw him in the red shirt. “What – what happened?”

The man sighed. He tucked the hen into the pen behind him, then turned back, arms crossed. “That ranch used to be in Charlie’s family, but it was lost before she was born – bad run of weather, I guess. She and her brother grew up workin’ there and it went up for sale again. They were tryin’ to buy it back, but didn’t have the money. Charlie was engaged to a fella who knew about a logging opportunity up north. High risk, high pay, you know those gigs. One summer workin’ there and they’d have the ranch back. That fella and her brother went up.” He shook his head. “One accident took ‘em both.”

“Jesus,” said Keith at the same time Michael murmured, “Engaged?”

“Used to see her and her brother every year ‘round here, with those chickens,” the man continued. “But she hasn’t been back. When I heard the chickens were gone, I thought it had to be a cruel joke. No way it was fair to lose ‘em on top of everything else.”

“It was my dog.” Michael closed his eyes, remembering chasing after Bo into the henhouse and getting there too late. He grimaced. “He was just a pup, raised with birdhounds. I was afraid she’d kill him if she knew, so I let her think I stole them. If I’d known…”

The man was watching him carefully, and he seemed to find Michael’s regret genuine enough. “Probably kinder that she thought they were alive for a time.”

Michael gave a slow nod, then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, I never caught your name. I’m Michael Cordero.”

“Jem Draper.” The man offered a hand, which he shook, then Keith did the same. “Well, if nothin’ else I’m glad y’all are lookin’ to make things right.”

-

Michael knocked on the door of Charlie’s farmhouse one evening a week later, trying to appear calm and confident. He readjusted the carrier under his arm, eliciting anxious peeps from its occupants that reflected his true feelings. Jem had reassured him repeatedly that the chicks were the right breed, the right age and this was the right time of year for Charlie to take them in. Michael privately believed that even if all those things were true he still stood a good chance of being shot. He’d gained a respect for Charlie by now, but he doubted the feelings were mutual.

She answered the door without a rifle, which he took as an encouraging sign.

“Hey there,” he said, voice only a little too high. “I, um, I brought the chickens.”

She stared at the box, which he hastily held out to her. This roused another plaintive round of peeps. Her eyebrows shot upwards for a fraction of a second, then crashed downwards, and she started to open her mouth.

“ _Prize_ chickens,” he hurried on. “I talked with Abe, then Nancy Sue, then the Jacques family, and just last week met Jem at the fair, and he said he spoke with the breeder from Barstowe, and the two brown chicks are from the same line as your old rooster. And the yellow ones are from his best hen.”

She closed her mouth.

“I don’t know much about chickens,” he confessed. He found it hard to meet her eyes but managed to keep his gaze up, just to her left. “Not even much about ranching, to be honest, but you knew that, of course, that’s right – and I don’t ever talk this much, anymore, but I just – I’m sorry. I should’ve made this right the moment it happened. I was dumb and scared and I thought the whole thing was just more proof that I was a bad man who should stay away from other folks. I figured no matter what I did after, it would only make things worse.”

All the fury had left her brow but it stayed furrowed, intent on him.

“But that wasn’t fair to you. I know now, really, how much it wasn’t fair to you.” He looked at her face finally, to find her eyes looked strangely bright. “And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. And I’m sorry this is late. And I hope it’s a good thing for you, but if not, if it isn’t what you want I can take it back right now and – “

She snatched the box from his hands. Indignant peeps flew out at the sudden movement, and she drew the box close to herself in a gesture that might look sweet in another woman. In Charlie, it was a lionness with her cub, a hawk shielding its kill.

His heart gave a tiny lift, but he was afraid to smile at her yet. “Can I – do you need help with, ah, settlin’ em in?”

She shook her head. He inclined his head and got ready to go. Count this a victory, then, he told himself – you didn’t make things worse, and maybe you made them a little better. He started to back off her porch.

“Rick,” she said at last when he started to turn. He turned back. “Rick, your foreman, we’ve been talkin’. Our ranches used to work together more afore – well, a while ago.” He nodded carefully. “Anyway, when he called for you the other day we got to talkin’ again and we’re startin’ a project. Little property up north between our ranches came for sale. All run down and too big for one of us alone, so we’re fixin’ it together. He’s supposed to give me a few hands one day a week for the rest of the summer.” She made sure he was meeting her eyes, and said, “I’ll ask for you to be one of ‘em. It’ll be nice to know I’ve got at least one good man on my crew.”

He took a sharp breath into a chest that was suddenly burning. She gave him the first true, if small, smile he’d ever seen on her face and shut the door gently. He was in his truck and driving back before he allowed himself a few small shuddering breaths that, if someone really listened, might have been mistaken for the sound of a good man allowing himself to feel forgiven.

\--

“Alright, well, do you get anything bad from the wet socks? Like sores and such?”

“No, it’s just that kinda sensation, all the time. Real uncomfortable, but not dangerous.”

“Well, if you pick the Cheeto hands can you put on gloves?”

“Yeah, sure, but you’ll still have the dust inside ‘em.”

“Hell, I don’t know. I think I’d still go with the Cheeto dust.”

“Makes sense, Keith. You always said you’d eat cheese puffs the rest of your life if y’could.”

This last one, from Michael, drew snorts from around the fire. Keith threw his empty beer can at him, which he only half-dodged. 

They had both been assigned to the fixup crew, which Michael figured was either a sign of Rick’s growing affection towards him or, more likely, an understanding that Keith was considerably less likely to cause trouble when paired with him. The first day they rode up to the new property after morning chores, they weren’t sure what to expect. In reality it wasn’t far from their usual day-to-day work – mending fences, clearing out old debris, and re-installing broken lights, latches, and posts. With just them and two of Charlie’s men, it was a small crew, and they had taken to unwinding at the end of the day with a few beers and a fire. Half the days, Rick was with them; the other half, Charlie.

Starting out strangers, they’d mostly sipped and watched the flames in silence at first. Then Keith, who had never tolerated silence or any kind of awkwardness well, started offering an occasional “would you rather.” Would you rather have a cold for the rest of your life, or face a boxer weekly? Would you rather be able to teleport or have telekenesis? Silly, but diverting.

Tonight they’d been out longer than most because Keith insisted there was supposed to be a meteor shower at some point (“The Leonids – or Perseids? – somethin’ ‘ids’ I’m tellin ya”) – so they’d run out of the more normal questions and ventured into stranger territory. The current question – would you rather have wet socks on your feet or Cheeto dust on your hands for the rest of your life – was surprisingly controversial.

“Well hold on now – what about goin’ to the bathroom? Or touchin’ your lady?” This was Lawrence, one of Charlie’s men. He waved a bottle accusingly at Keith. “You goin’ to have intimate relations with cheese dust everywhere?”

“That’s presumin’ Keith’s havin’ intimate relations in the first place,” Charlie drawled, a wicked grin curving the edge of her lips. Keith, without ammunition at the moment since he’d thrown his can at Michael, settled for flipping her the bird.

“Watch it, cheese hands,” growled Evans, Charlie’s other employee. Charlie’s men, who were both older, carried a protective streak. They double-checked Michael’s work for the first few days, giving him a cold stare in return to any greeting. When Keith tried to charm Charlie like he tried to charm all humans in his path, they took him into a quiet corner of the barn and explained in detail the places he might find his balls if he kept it up, none of which were on his person. They softened up after a week, though, and he could see the way Charlie teased them for it. Now they enjoyed sparring with Keith too.

“You watch it, old man,” Keith retorted without much heat. “Just ‘cause you’d be happy with squishy shoes. New question, then – you got one hour to talk to anyone – anyone that ever lived, no matter when – and they were willing and had to be honest, who would it be?”

“Shoot, I’d have to pick Seth Gables,” Lawrence answered. At the nonplussed glances around the fire, he went on, “Neighbor of mine, when I was a kid. I got in all kinds of trouble for the barn catchin’ on fire, but I know he started it. And I’d like to get even, sometime.” He took a long drink from his beer and said nothing further, staring into the fire.

Michael raised an eyebrow at Charlie – _yikes_ – who shrugged – _so what?_ – but her eyes were dancing. He rolled his eyes and ducked his smile into his own beer. These evenings had quickly become his favorite part of the week. He told himself it was the warmth of the fire, getting to joke around with Keith, a smaller group where he felt like he could breathe. The fact that Charlie was usually there, comfortable in the presence of her guys, and displayed a keen wit with her sharp sense of humor, and had a smile that caught the firelight just right, was in no way related to his enjoyment, he was sure. So despite not seeing a single meteor yet, he was more than content to indulge Keith as long as he liked.

Evans picked Teddy Roosevelt and refused to explain why. Keith picked his favorite country music singer, confident that given just an hour they would become fast friends and he’d enjoy all the perks of celebrity. Charlie cited her privilege as the boss – well, one of them – and declined to answer. They turned to Michael, who was almost done his second beer, and was only half-listening when he was prompted so, like an idiot, answered honestly.

“Rose,” he said, then almost dropped his can.

“Who the hell is that?” Lawrence asked.

Michael tightened his mouth. He knew they all had heard what happened to him, or at least the broad strokes of it – Montana loved gossip as much as the next state, and the tale was too tall to be believed but easy enough to share.

“She’s the one who took my memories,” he said eventually. “Never did tell me why.”

Even Charlie’s grizzled ranch hands looked uncertain at that. The hiss of the fire was the only sound for several minutes. Keith finally cleared his throat.

“Sounds like a real bitch,” he said firmly. “Ain’t worth an hour of your time, Michael.”

He gave his friend a grateful look, but then - “How?”

All eyes turned to Evans, who repeated, “How? How did she do it? That ain’t natural.”

“Evans, that ain’t none of your business – ” started Keith, but Michael shook his head. The burning in his chest was back, but sharper than before, and he found himself answering.

“She kidnapped me,” he said, surprised at how easy it came out. He looked at the fire, afraid to check their reactions, especially Charlie’s. “Don’t know how. I was taking a test, then I woke up on her table. She used – well, you’d call it electroshock, probably, but I think it was different. I’d black out, wake up in a kinda - fog. Wouldn’t know what was what. Only problem was I’d keep remembering everything after a little while. So she’d do it again, every day, ‘till I started to lose things for good.” He swallowed hard. “I forgot Jane – my, ah, she was my wife before – I forgot her last. Days, I think, maybe a week, where I didn’t know anything else. Not the year, not my name, just her. They didn’t know what was taking so long, and neither did I. I just knew I had to hold onto her.” He closed his eyes. “Until I couldn’t any more.”

Silence stretched taut between them, and he wished immediately he’d said something, anything else. He’d kept this horror inside of him long enough and could have managed longer. Probably. Maybe. He flicked a glance over at Charlie, wishing especially he hadn’t burdened her with his mess when she had enough already. He found instead she was staring up at the stars.

“Ben,” she said abruptly. “My fiancé, the damn fool. I’d pick him. I’d ask him why the hell he didn’t get out of the way in time, or why he let my brother come after him, or why he ever convinced’im to go there in the first place. And I’d tell him I still love and forgive him anyway, even though it tears me apart.”

Michael wanted say something – something like _I’m so sorry_ or _I get it_ or just _thank you, thank you, for offering yours, too_ – but suddenly she gasped. “There! There, I saw one!”

“One what?” said Lawrence, who had long written off Keith’s claim.

“A – a shootin’ star!” They all looked up again then, and sure enough, there were streaks of bright fire painting the heavens, small but brilliant, every minute or so, against the vast blanket of stars in the deep Montana sky. Quiet fell again, now peaceful, even sacred somehow.

So much so that Keith was in awe a whole five minutes before he remembered to grin and roar: “ _Told ya!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter! I apologize for the long delay between uploads - the whole story is written, but since doing that got the bug out, I've been lazier about actually sharing it. Will try to post the rest in short order, scout's honor.


End file.
